#12: Grass As Sharp As Knives

Kenneth leans from the side of the trailer with his scythe,
slashing at poppy heads
as we drive farther and farther from home.

Down a rutted track, mud baked into hard gullies,
branches hang like hag's noses. Many trees
look as if they've been exploded from the inside.

We pass a water jug back and forth between us.
The gears creak like a forced joke
and as we pass the dead pond

Ken beheads a hare in one, clean stroke.
Hay bales burn in the distance.
Something in the sunrise reminds me of Christmas.